


Well, if we're being entirely honest...

by TalkMarvelToMe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 107th Sergeant Bucky, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, F/M, Gay Steve Rogers, M/M, Matchmaker Natasha Romanov, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Sassy Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, Strike Team Captain Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 21:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalkMarvelToMe/pseuds/TalkMarvelToMe
Summary: “Natasha, what did I say about setting me up on blind dates?”“Oh, this isn’t-”“At least you got the gender right this time,” Steve interrupted.“This really is-”“Hi,” Steve exaggeratedly said to Mystery Man, “I’m Steve but you probably already know that. I apologize for any sort of pretense these two-” Steve blatantly pointed to both Sam and Nat “-may have given; but, I am not interested in any more blind dates.”“First, drop the attitude,” Nat chastised, “second, I didn’t even know this fine gentleman was going to be here.”





	1. Too Many Blind Dates

“ _Natasha_ ,” Steve immediately chastised upon seeing another man sitting next to Sam. 

Mystery Man was rather attractive with his dark brown hair, evidently substantial in length, pulled into a low bun at the nape of his neck, accented by striking grey blue eyes that seemed to reflect the complementary color of his shirt. But, that was beside the point. 

“What did I say about setting me up on blind dates?” 

_So much for a pleasant weekly lunch with friends_ , Steve thought. This whole blind date idea of Nat’s was really getting old. The types of people Nat would set Steve up with were not his type - _they’re all too full of themselves, too modern, too...much_ \- so quite the opposite of Steve’s type. 

“Oh, this isn’t-”

“At least you got the gender right this time,” Steve interrupted, not even wanting to hear whatever rationale she had for giving this one a chance. It was always the same spiel. 

But, he was right about the whole gender thing. It took four failed dates with women before Steve formulated the courage to inform his redheaded friend about his sexuality despite her apparent nonchalance regarding the subject. _Why didn’t you just say so sooner, Steve; then, I wouldn’t have wasted your time with vagina._

“This really is-”

“Hi,” Steve exaggeratedly said to Mystery Man with an extended hand, effectively surprising both the poor lad dragged into the scheme and Sam. “I’m Steve but you probably already know that. I apologize for any sort of pretense these two-” Steve blatantly pointed to both Sam and Nat “-may have given; but, I am not interested in any more blind dates.”

“Christ’s sake, Sam,” Mystery Man said after reluctantly shaking Steve’s hand, “I thought you said your friends were-” pausing, the man raised his right hand to apply the evidently appropriate air quote “- _chill_.”

“Steve,” Natasha softly spoke, sitting down after Steve less than gracefully plopped himself into the closest chair, shoving his face into the menu. 

“What,” Steve spat, not even sounding remotely like a question.

“First, drop the attitude,” Nat chastised, dramatically removing her sunglasses before moving on, “second, I didn’t even know this fine gentleman was going to be here.”

Steve was suddenly glad for the ridiculously oversized menus as it adequately concealed his rapidly ascending flush. Tilting his head to his left, Steve widened his eyes toward Nat as if silently demanding confirmation. 

“Yeah, uh,” Sam began prompting Steve to slowly lower his godsent laminated barrier, “he’s a friend of mine from the VA. I told him I was meeting some friends for lunch and asked if he wanted to join-”

“More like _demanded_ ,” Mystery Man corrected to which Steve shifted his gaze to the left, following the train of conversation, while refusing to lower his protective barrier lower than his eyes. “Since I supposedly need to, what did you say, Sam, ‘get out sometime and meet someone that ain’t me’?”

“See?”

Steve’s gaze continued left to witness Natasha’s infamous I-told-you-so smirk. He rolled his eyes because how the hell else was he supposed to rationally respond. 

“Steve,” Nat soothingly began as if talking to a misbehaving toddler, “I think you owe someone an apology.”

“Oh, that’s really not-”

“Steve,” Nat interrupted Mystery Man’s adamant interjection with her own. 

Reluctantly lowering his menu (speaking of, when would a waiter come _relieve him of this torment_ ), Steve pinched his lips closed as he inhaled sharply through his nose. “I’m sorry for assuming. I’m Steve.”

“So you said,” Mystery Man retorted with a ridiculously sinful smirk, “Bucky.”

“That’s your name?” Steve immediately snapped his mouth shut; evidently his brain-to-mouth filter is taking a well deserved vacation. Wonderful timing.

“Steve,” Nat and Sam simultaneously chastised. 

“It’s a nickname,” Mystery Man - _Bucky_ \- elaborated. “My real name is James; but, if you call me that, I’m gonna call you Ma.”

“Bucky it is,” Steve nodded as he sent a silent prayer for his blush to join his brain-to-mouth filter on vacation. 

And, of course, _now_ the waitress decides to make her appearance. Couldn’t have been two minutes ago while Steve was desperately struggling behind his menu. Or five minutes ago when he originally set off the cascade of embarrassment. Or, hell, just 30 seconds ago when he inadvertently made fun of the man’s name! But, no. She decided to show up _now. Now_ when Steve apparently forgot how to order a damn glass of water as evidenced by Sam’s and Nat’s feet finding his shins. Ouch.

“Oh, uh, water,” Steve responded to the unheard question, attempting to flash a smile to the poor girl that didn’t depict his irrational frustration toward her. 

“So, Steve,” Bucky spoke, evidently having been told by Sam to make small talk. “What d’ya do?”

“Uh, I’m, uh,” Steve oh-so-eloquently began, “I’m an artist. I...draw.” Steve was certain he heard Natasha snort to his left. “How about yourself?”

“I’m trying to _acclimate myself to society having gone through a traumatic life experience_ ,” Bucky spitefully recited as if reading from a script while accepting his tea from the returned waitress, “it’s a full time gig.”

“At least you’re accepting that part now,” Sam mumbled to himself, ignoring the pointed glare Bucky shot him. 

“Kinda hard to deny re-acclimation is necessary when you’re missing an arm,” Bucky retorted much to Nat and Steve’s confusion. Nat didn’t show it; Steve did.

“Are you all ready to order?”

“Yes,” all four practically yelled at the poor girl. Steve genuinely felt sorry for their attitudes. She would be getting a nice tip.

*** *** ***

“ _I’m an artist. I draw_ ,” Natasha mimicked, “seriously, Steve?!”

“It’s not a lie, not completely.”

“It’s lying by omission.”

“Shove it, Romanoff,” Steve commanded without any heat. “I just don’t like everyone military suddenly treating me differently when they know my rank.”

“What, with reverence?”

“No, with _hesitance_ ,” Steve corrected, “like they have to edit or hide who they really are.”

“I don’t think you’re giving the man as much credit as he deserves.”

“Nat,” Steve warningly began, “why do I sense another blind date in the works?”

“Would it still be a blind date if you’ve already met the person before?”

“ _Nat_.”

*** *** ***

“I think I definitely made an impression,” Bucky feigned self commendation. At least he gave half assed effort. Better than none.

“Yeah, not exactly the type of impression I meant…” Sam chastised. 

“That Steve guy was a character, though.”

“Oh,” Sam suggestively inquired, raising an eyebrow as if begging for elaboration. After not receiving a response from Bucky, Sam continued with utter sarcasm, “well, I’m sure you definitely reeled the man in with your recitation of my PTSD brochure.”

*** *** ***

**BUCKY** : Hi, Sam gave me your number  
 **BUCKY** : I was told to text you  
 **BUCKY** : And I was supposed to leave that part out

 **STEVE** : Who is this?

 **BUCKY** : Oh, Bucky  
**BUCKY** : Ya know, the one from the world’s most awkward lunch

 **STEVE** : Thanks for the clarification. I was wondering which Bucky you were.

 **BUCKY** : So the artist is a smartass…

 **STEVE** : Creativity comes in all shapes and sizes.

 **BUCKY** : That was lame

 **STEVE** : I know. Nat told me to play nice; so, I’m trying.

 **BUCKY** : Alright gramps

“What the hell am I supposed to say to _that_?” 

Natasha chuckled as she recapped the text stream on Steve’s phone before typing with a devious smirk then passing the device back to it’s owner. 

Reading the unsent text, Steve turned an impressive shade of beet red, “ _‘so wanna get in my pants?’_ ” Furiously pressing the delete button repeatedly, Steve chastised the redhead, “you can’t just send that to people. That’s sexual harassment. Plus, I don’t even know if he swings that way,” added in a mumble. 

“But, you _are_ interested?”

Saved by the bell - really, the chirp of an incoming text - Steve rolled his eyes and glanced at his phone.

 **BUCKY** : So you know about my nickname, how about yours...Cap?

 **STEVE** : Only a few people call me that.

 **BUCKY** : Kinda the point of a nickname, pal

“Seriously, Steve?” Natasha cocked her eyebrow up, not sparing any potential judgment, “just tell the man what you do.” Having received a silent glare from the beefy blond, Nat took her turn with the eye roll, “at least make normal conversation, Rogers.”

After a few moments of typing, deleting, retyping, deleting, having an epiphany, smiling, typing again, Steve sent a text. 

**STEVE** : So, how is the weather?

Five miles away, Bucky’s phone made an obnoxious pinging noise indicative of a received message.

“Sam, I don’t think I can do this,” Bucky groaned as he tossed his phone to his friend as he walked into the kitchen to grab a beer. “At least not sober.”

*** *** ***

A week later, sprinting into the infirmary, Bucky located Sam conversing with a doctor in the hallway.

“Thanks, Doc,” Sam somberly spoke, “keep us posted.” After the doctor gave an affirmative response and walked into a room to Sam’s right, Bucky approached his friend. 

“Car’s parked; how is she?”

“GSW to the stomach, severe blood loss; but, that’s not why the docs are concerned.” Sam shifted his feet, not taking his eyes off the patterned floor tile aside from an occasional glance to the door the white coat entered. “Fell three stories from the roof when she took the shot. Hit her head. Still waiting for her to regain consciousness.”

“Sam, I-”

“And Clint’s on a solo mission on who-knows-what continent and I’m the next emergency contact,” Sam added, holding his gaze at the door Bucky assumed Nat was behind. 

A blunt thud prompted both men to shift their gaze to the window to the left of the door. A man stood in full tac gear, eyes shut, forehead evidently having dramatically made contact with the glass. Bucky presumed the man’s hair was blond; however, given the dried blood, soot, and shards of who knows what, it was hard to tell. 

“And then there’s _that_ ,” Sam added, noting Bucky’s gaze. 

“Is that..?”

“Steve,” Sam supplied, garnering the man’s attention.

“It was my fault-”

“Cap, you always blame yourself,” Sam donned his counselor voice as he continued. “From what I’ve heard you guys had bad intel. Too many assailants for just a two man recon mission.”

“Still,” Steve sourly countered, “Hydra’s always been _generous_ with the traps. I shoulda marked it prior to going in. Especially knowing there was a chance Nikolov was there.”

“Demitri Nikolov?” Bucky raised his eyebrow as he focused on Steve, “I’m going out on a limb here and saying you lied about the whole _artist_ thing.”

“Well, uh, I mean it wasn’t like _entirely_ -” Sam shook his head at the sudden change of Steve’s persona. 

“I’m gonna stop you there,” Bucky held up his right hand, effectively stopping Steve’s mumbling as he reached into his back pocket with his gloved left hand. “I haven’t been entirely honest with ya; but, if we’re gonna find this son of a bitch, we’ve gotta work on the honesty thing.”

“Buc-” Steve began but was cut off by a small photo shoved into his hands. While Steve _didn’t_ readily identify any of the people given all means of recognition were concealed, he _did_ identify their tactical gear accented with half face masks and goggles. “Spec Ops,” his mind supplied, “the 107th.”

“We liked to call ourselves the Howling Commandos,” Bucky shrugged as if the reveal was no big deal. Like disclosing confidential information to random men in hospital halls was a normal thing to do. 

“You said you were in the Army,” Steve retorted, thinking back onto their seemingly endless conversations over the past week. 

“I said military,” Buck corrected. 

“You said you did time in Afghanistan. Or was it Iraq?”

“I said I’ve done time in the Middle East.”

“You said you were a POW.”

“True,” Bucky confirmed, nodding his head.

“And you know Dimitri Nikolov?”

“True,” Buck nodded his head once more. Wasn’t this Steve guy just full of questions. 

“107th. POW. Hydra,” Steve rambled to himself, evidently slowly connecting the dots. “Sergeant James Barnes, you’re supposed to be dead.”

“The status of Sergeant Barnes is classified,” Bucky replied with a snarky smirk. Sam snorted.

“Sergeant,” Steve authoritatively began, taking one predatory step forward into Bucky’s personal space before he spoke through gritted teeth, “I am Captain Rogers of Strike Team Delta. I’m fairly certain I have the proper clearance to receive that information.”

Bucky had to stifle a smile as the sudden transformation from Steve to Captain Rogers was quite the sight. It gave him this flustered feeling deep down in his gut. A pleasant...fluster. _Hmm,_ Bucky thought, _let’s see where this will go_. 

“Where’d my artist go, Stevie?”

“Wha- that’s-,” Steve stammered, taking a slight step back and swallowing down an evident blush creeping into his cheeks. 

_His artist_ , Steve mulled over that thought over for a while. _His?_ Steve knew where their texting conversations were going - definitely flirting, Nat said he was on the verge of sexting (whatever the hell that meant) - but that claim of possession was new. They hadn’t even gone on a date; but, they talked about it. Kind of…

“That’s not the way to talk to a superior officer,” Steve settled for, his voice coming out much more seductive than he anticipated. Primarily because he aimed for a seduction level of _grandma’s-house_ while he managed to surprisingly achieve a solid _come-home-with-me_ on a scale of _grandma’s-house_ to _laying-on-a-bed-in-nothing-but-a-bow-tie_.

Bucky’s smirk, ready to provide a witty retort, quickly departed prompting Steve to become confused. However, what was more overpowering than the confusion was the sudden lightheadedness. 

“Steve?”

Steve felt Sam’s grasp on his shoulder, steadying the pending sway, as he heard the man’s voice. Pressing his right palm against the wound on his stomach he was desperately trying to ignore, he felt warm moisture. 

“Shit,” Steve mumbled upon seeing the vibrant red on his palm, “must’ve bled through another dressing.”

“What the hell?”

“Stabbed on the mi-”

“She’s stirring if one of you would like to come in before we do a few tests,” the doctor interrupted, peeking his head out of the door. “May help to have a familiar face when she fully wakes.”

The men looked between each other, giving occasional shrugs and nods in silent communication, ultimately deciding Sam would go inside. 

“I’ll go get someone,” Buck spoke with a rare softness, “think you can stand, pal?”

“No doctors,” Steve demanded as his grip on Bucky’s arm solidified. The striking solidity of the prosthetic surprised Steve while the touch evidently surprised Bucky as well. “Just help me get into a vacant room. I can stitch it.”

“Like hell,” Bucky replied as he slipped his left arm under Steve, ignoring all protests, and made his way to the room next to Nat’s. “Please be empty,” Bucky mumbled as he all but kicked the door in. Fortunately they didn’t intrude on a patient’s privacy since the room was empty. 

“I’m f’ling ima pissut onu,” Steve garbled. 

“Either you’re about’ta fling piss at me or you feel like you’re gonna pass out on me,” Bucky deciphered as he sloughed Steve onto the vacant gerney. “Given our current situation, I’m goin’ with the latter.”

“Ngirk,” Steve replied. 

“Did you just call me a jerk?” Bucky rummaged through the stocked cabinets, having to pick two locks to acquire all the proper supplies before dumping them on Steve’s legs and selecting the trauma shears. “Pal, we’re about’ta get real close here, if you’re gonna start calling me names, I’d prefer sweetheart,” he sarcastically concluded, pulling open the kevlar vest and various holster straps. 

“Date...first…” Steve managed to slowly utter in response to Bucky cutting open his navy blue compression shirt from the waistband of his tac pants to his neck. 

“We’ll work out the details later,” Bucky offered with a genuine smile. “Still allergic to penicillin and morphine?”

“Told ya...grew outta that,” Steve mumbled out nearly indiscernibly, trying not to laugh.

“Well, over the past few minutes, I’ve realized your texts over the past week haven’t exactly epitomized truth,” Bucky retorted without any heat, accenting his feigned frustration by jabbing a needle into Steve’s deltoid. 

“Arghh jerk!”

Bucky administered the pre measured antibiotic followed by another jab and administration of an analgesic. 

“Punk, you were stabbed in the gut, you can take a couple shots from an 18 gauge needle.” As Bucky prepped the wound and supplies for suturing the wound closed, he continued his rambling, “better than those 15 gauges in the field.”

“Gotta agree with that.”

“Hey, he can speak coherently now,” Bucky joyously spoke, evidently making jokes as he began the first stitch. “This isn’t gonna feel too great.”

Steve groaned, willing himself to grow some balls and deal with the pain as Bucky continued his chattering. 

“Before you get all loopy,” Bucky inquired as he threaded another stitch, “can you tell me why you didn’t tell me what you really do for a livin’?”

Sighing through another stitch, Steve replied, “you’da treated me different, like your CO or somethin’.”

“Ha! Then you don’t know me, pal,” Bucky huffed out, tying off the surgical thread. “So, what d’ya say about goin’ after Dimitri Nikolov and killing the son of a bitch once and for all?”

“Sounds personal to you?”

“When I was captured, he was the one orchestrating all the experiments,” Bucky shrugged his left shoulder, purposefully drawing attention to his prosthesis. Steve nodded in solemn understanding. 

“Well, my team’s practically out of commission,” Steve closed his eyes, allowing himself to easily relax under Bucky’s gentle touch as he covered the sealed wound with a new dressing. “Nat’s obviously out; Clint’s on a solo mission. So, it’d just be myself, Sam, and you.”

“And my team,” Bucky leaned over Steve’s stomach to tear the tape with his teeth. Steve would forever deny that gesture caused any lustful thoughts in his mind. _Forever_ deny. His involuntary gasp was solely because of pain...of course. “Watch yourself, Captain,” Bucky drawled in a way that can only be described as seductive.

Steve shot Bucky a pointed look, trying to hide his own smirk, that signified he knew exactly what the brunette was insinuating. 

“Anyway,” Bucky refocused, “there’s five of us; however, they’re all kind of under probation for another couple weeks.”

“Buck,” Steve chastised lightly before continuing, “what for?”

“Unsanctioned mission almost six months ago.” Bucky held out a hand, helping Steve sit up to a more comfortable position with his legs slung over the edge of the gurney, and continued once Steve gave a nod of inquiry. “They rescued me.”

After a couple seconds of deep thought, Steve turned to Buck, “when can they be ready?”

Bucky’s smirk came back in full force. “Soon as I tell ‘em why, they’ll be here be here before sundown.”

“I’ll get our tech guy tracking Nikolov down; as soon as we have location confirmation, wheels up.” Steve concluded. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow and made a valiant effort of glancing down to Steve’s still exposed stomach, bandage visible, silently inquiring his ability to tromp into a battle with a fresh wound. 

“Would that stop you?”

“Touche,” Bucky replied with a subtle nod. “When this guy’s dead, can you take me out on that date?”

“Well aren’t you the romantic,” Steve jabbed, rolling his eyes as Bucky simply smirked. 

“So, is that a yes?”

“C’mere,” Steve murmured as he firmly grasped the front of Bucky’s shirt, guiding the brunette to stand between his legs before pulling him in for a kiss. 

“From the looks of things, I assume my Captain’s not dyin’ in here.”

Bucky and Steve jumped apart upon hearing Sam’s voice. Steve turned an impressive shade of red as Bucky shot Sam a unamused look at having interrupted their moment.


	2. Southern Caviar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand!! 
> 
> Steve and Bucky go on their date, Natasha gets a few jabs in (because of course), and the future happens.

Steve immediately regretted the lack of grace he managed to procure as he quite literally plopped into his seat. His breath caught abruptly in his throat with a sound - most aptly described as a squeak - he prayed Bucky didn’t hear. 

“You know,” the brunette began slowly as he opened his menu with an exaggerated effort of peering over the edge. “If you didn’t take a hit for one of my guys, I’d be making so many jokes about your ass right now.”

Sending up _another_ silent prayer of thanks that the chairs had armrests, allowing for adequate pressure relief for his derriere, Steve struggled to open the menu with one hand. 

“I’ll have you know that-” abruptly cut off by the spasm of pain, Steve’s hand (once more) contacted the armrest with a sharp slap. Yep, the menu would have to be conquered single handedly. One hand _had_ to remain on the armrest. His rear couldn’t handle his own weight. 

“I’ll have you know that a bruised tailbone is a _legitimate_ injury,” Steve finally managed to utter despite holding his breath and wondering how awkward it’d be to ask the waiter for an extra tablecloth as a cushion. Too weird, right? _Definitely not first date worthy,_ Steve thought.

“I didn’t say a word, Stevie,” Bucky spoke through a stifled smirk.

Great, Steve thought as the man’s seductive voice elicited impure thoughts. _Sex positions that avoid a bruised tailbone isn’t what should be going through your mind on a first date._ Letting out a groan, Steve couldn’t help but think, _Nat’s rubbing off on me._

“You’ve probably got a few jokes about my…” Steve began, pausing to look around and ensure there were no ladies around before he discussed his hind quarters. He wasn’t raised in a barn; his mama taught him well. While he was utterly exhausted from last night’s mission, he was still fully aware that discussions about one’s rump and a properly pressed suit should never coincide.

“Ass, Steve,” Bucky uninhibitedly finished, “your ass.” After taking a drink of his water while utterly ignoring the flush of Steve’s face, Bucky continued as if he hadn’t just offended the stuck up housewife to his right. “But, yes, I do. _Many_ jokes. They’re great, in case you were wondering.”

Feeling brave, Steve decided _two play this game._ “Let me guess, those jokes are probably all about you being deep inside of-”

“How are you two gentlemen doing this evening?”

Well, safe to say _all_ the blood rushing to his nether regions was immediately rerouted to his face. Steve Rogers looked like a tomato. Bucky did a phenomenal job at ignoring the blush and a horrible job at keeping the waiter’s attention until Steve could maintain some sort of composure. 

Bucky glanced over, smirking like a cat that got the cream. Of course the man knew the waiter was approaching during Steve’s feeble attempt at leveling Bucky’s jest. Of course the man ordered as fast as humanly possible to ensure Steve would have to face the waiter - the man who heard his ill timed dick joke - while blushing like a schoolgirl. Of course the man was in on this. _Of course,_ Steve thought as the waiter turned to him. _Bastard._

“I’ll have the uh-” Well, this answer would be easy if Steve had actually glanced at the menu. _Okay_ , Steve thought as his eyes skimmed over the names of various dishes for something that sounded like he had a remotely decadent palate. _Caviar, that’s sounds fancy._ “I’ll take the Southern Caviar, please.”

With a succinct nod and a smile that looked more like an attempt at concealing an inside joke, the waiter took the menus and left. As Steve put a fist over his mouth to conceal his yawn - _recall, late night mission_ \- he saw Bucky smirking unabashedly in Steve’s direction. 

“I had a joke prepared for the bull balls,” Bucky began, biting his bottom lip to conceal laughter, “you know, given your current injury. However, I thought better of it given you brought me to this fancy restaurant and all.” 

Gaping his mouth like a fish, Steve tried (and failed) to follow Bucky’s train of thought. Evidently the brunette gathered as much, prompting him to continue. “Do you know what you even ordered?”

“No,” Steve finally admitted after initial reservation. “Someone was distracting me with their…” waving his hand vaguely up and down in Bucky’s direction, Steve elected to not finish _that_ given sentence. 

“What?” Bucky wiggled his eyebrows in a purposefully suggestive manner, “my body?” And, Steve was red again. 

“Your mouth, dammit!”

“Oh really?”

Steve sunk his face into his hands. How come what came out of his mouth was never indicative of what went on in his brain? Apparently his brain-to-mouth filter was _still_ on vacation. _Wonderful. Just wonderful._

Put the man on the battlefield and he can speak with unwavering conviction; send him on a date and it was like watching the world’s most impressive trainwreck - full of cringing yet you just _can’t_ peel your eyes away. Welcome to the life of Captain Rogers versus Steve, the Dork.

“Your _words_...or _jokes_ ,” Steve finally managed. Bucky smiled. He understood. He _so_ understood the entire time. “Jerk,” Steve jabbed, although he couldn’t control the smile forming on his face. Bucky made everything so lighthearted and easy. It was...fun. 

“Punk,” Bucky offered in return before morphing his smile into something that quickly resembled curiosity. “But, you really don’t know what you just ordered, do you?” Evidently the sputtering syllables and unavoidable eye contact gave Steve away. “Bull balls,” Bucky said as if that explains anything. “You know, southern caviar...cow testicles?”

Well, no wonder the waiter gave him that look. Here Steve is, on a date with a man, with a tender ass, ordering cow balls. 

Perfect. 

After two minutes, Steve’s face finally resembled some sort of neutral color (read: not a shade that would make a highlighter company envious) and Bucky had managed to rein in his laughter to appropriate levels. 

“Dammit, Steve,” Bucky began as he put a hand over his mouth to conceal a yawn. It wasn’t until then that Steve realized he let another one of his own sneak through. “Those’re contagious don’tcha know.”

“Sorry, I know it’s rude-”

“No, no,” Bucky immediately amended, “s’not that. We landed at three this morning. Shoulda rescheduled, you know. Get more than two hours of sleep.” It was obvious the two were both completely beat from the successful mission. 

“I couldn’t wait to go on a date with you any longer,” Steve gave a sweet smile that was immediately overcome by another yawn. _Damn you, physiology._ “At least you got a couple hours in. I was with Fury all day defending our asses.” Bucky opened his mouth only to be interrupted by Steve, “no butt jokes.”

Snapping his teeth shut, Bucky smiled, revealing he was on the verge of seizing the opportunity. “Truce,” he held his hands up in a placating manner before continuing, “but, how’d the chat with boss-man go?”

“Given it was my idea, I’m on probation for three weeks but both of our teams are back on active duty contingent upon medical restrictions,” Steve succinctly surmised in his Captain-ly voice. 

“But, it wasn’t _entirely_ your idea,” Bucky amended, expression suddenly somber upon readily recalling his efforts at pushing Steve to go for the mission.

Captain Rogers shot Bucky a _challenge me_ look that the brunette dare not provoked. However, through the rough exterior, Steve Rogers forced out a yawn. Bucky would have laughed; but, he was too busy scheming.

“Fine,” Bucky settled for a lighthearted challenge, “under one condition.” 

Upon receiving Steve’s hesitant nod for continuance, Bucky elaborated. “While I love dressin’ up and being taken to a hoity toity restaurant, we’re both exhausted. I won’t petition against your probation as long as we reschedule this dinner, go back to your place with your bull balls to-go, and make a dent in this Netflix series I’ve been dying to binge.”

With a moan that really should have been saved for bedroom pleasantries, Steve huffed out a grateful “you’re perfect; yes, please,” before spinning in his seat - _bruised tailbone be damned_ \- to flag down the waiter.

*** *** ***

After unceremoniously dumping his date on the couch, Bucky rummaged through Steve’s kitchen until he located utensils and an adequate ice pack...which wound up being a bag of frozen peas. _In our line of work, bruised up body parts are not uncommon. So, yes, Buck; I do have frozen peas for this exact purpose._

Having settled on the couch, shed their shoes and jackets, and grazed on their meals ( _no Steve, I’m not eating your bull balls; that’s a second date kind of offer_ ), Steve paused the show, mid credits. 

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,” Bucky readily replied. 

“I mean, if you don’t feel comfortable answering, that’s no prob-”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was stern; however, the edges of his lips were curled ever so slightly.

“Okay.” Setting down the now empty to-go container, Steve shifted to his left to face Bucky, trying to ignore the since forgotten injury. “Your...arm. You mentioned losing an arm while you were a POW; but, uh,” Steve scratched his head, desperately chastising himself for not mentally rehearsing this question beforehand. And let the valiant difference between Captain Rogers and Steve be shown...

“I mean, you seem to use your left perfectly fine; yet, it, well,” Steve decided to ignore the stifled smirk he _swore_ he saw out of the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t _feel_ like a normal arm. But, you always wear a glove; so, I wasn’t sure if...hell, I don’t even know exactly what I’m asking for...why are you smiling like that?”

“You know,” Bucky began, never ceasing the smile plastered across his face as he wiped his mouth and abandoned his own to-go container on the table. “You’re kinda cute when you get all flustered.”

“So you just let me suffer through all that…” Steve waved his hand vaguely in the air while trying to flash his best look of betrayal (you can bet your ass Steve will use the hell out of those persuasive puppy dog eyes he’s been told he has) “...blabbering for your entertainment?”

With a noncommittal grunt, Bucky slowly removed the glove on his left hand that had practically become a second skin. (Please note the man saw _straight past_ those puppy dog eyes; the blond may think he has Bucky wrapped around his finger; but...oh, hell who was he kidding, he’d already fallen.) “Hydra was trying this new infusion that would supposedly enhance healing abilities - striving to make the _ultimate soldier_ or whatever.” 

Noting Steve’s subtle nod to continue in his own time, Bucky turned slightly toward Steve, bending his right leg onto the couch as he began unbuttoning his dress shirt’s left cuff. “Ironically, the injections resulted in severe infection. After a couple weeks, it was so bad, they amputated it.” 

Rolling his sleeve up to reveal the articulating metal plates, Buck continued, “then my boys found me and brought me back to the states. Stark heard about my case, made this thing in what’s gotta be record time and…” Bucky looked up to Steve and gave a hopeful smile. “Now, I’m a cyborg.”

“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable or feel pressured into saying anything.”

“Nah,” Bucky shook his head, dismissively waving his right hand, “I feel comfortable telling you.” After a beat, he quietly added, “as odd as it may sound, I kinda wanted to.”

“Thanks, Buck, that means a lot,” Steve was genuinely touched that Bucky already felt comfortable. However, he had an additional question. But, he didn’t want to blow whatever trust they had managed to build thus far. _Okay, Rogers, think before you open your damn mouth this time. Do NOT just ask the man if you can touch it. At least not out right. Sprinkle in some finesse. Maybe say-_

“Steve, ask your question?”

Ceasing all non-vital thought processes, Steve realized he had been worrying his lower lip between his teeth throughout his internal monologue. “Oh, it, uh, it’s just...nothing.” _Eloquent, Rogers. Steve, please exit stage right; Captain, enter stage left._

“You want to touch it,” Bucky deadpanned with a hint of amusement lacing his eyes. Of course he knew.

Before Steve could provide some sort of _only if you insist_ retort, a metal arm was shoved in his direction, eliciting an embarrassingly excited smile from his face. Bucky shamelessly laughed at Steve’s inquisitive nature as the blond immediately twisted the wrist and pulled and prodded at the fingers. 

“So,” Steve began in his best _I’m just curious, I swear I have no ulterior motive_ tone, “how far does the prosthesis go?” _So what if - through genuine curiosity - he found a way to get the guy’s shirt off?_

Reaching for the buttons of his right cuff, Bucky smirked, “you tryin’ to get me naked, Captain?”

Steve’s eyes were _definitely_ staying at the height of Bucky’s shoulders. They were most certainly not following his movements at his third shirt button. Now the fourth. Not that Steve’s paying that much attention. Fifth. Okay, maybe his gaze was wandering a little.

Desperately trying to conjure some confidence through his Captain voice, Steve managed to huff out, “and if I was?”

Bucky’s fingers paused. Steve’s breath hitched on the inhalation. Bucky managed to flash an attractive combination of being impressed and lust-driven (how? Steve doesn’t know). Steve finally exhaled. Bucky stood as he unclasped the final button. Steve stopped breathing. Again. Bucky gracefully shimmied out of the dress shirt, letting it carelessly fall to the floor while maintaining eye contact with Steve in a way that was just downright sinful. 

“To answer your question,” Bucky began as he sat down, smirking toward Steve in silent acknowledgement of Steve’s evident flustered facade. The blond had to mentally shake his head...and remind himself to keep breathing. Oxygen is _not_ overrated, contrary to his mind’s evident current belief. _Task at hand, Rogers. Focus!_

“While the metal ends here,” Bucky gestured to the junction of metal and flesh on his shoulder, “the internal anchoring goes further.” His smile wavered in an inadvertent show of hesitation, “I’ve really never showed this to anyone. Well, Tony and his crew ‘cause they put it on. And Dum Dum ‘cause he helped me adjust after post-op; but, uh…”

Bucky brought his right hand to the back of his neck as a nervous habit as his eyes aimlessly grazed the room. It was Bucky’s breath that hitched this time, caused by the feather light touch of Steve’s fingers against the metal on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“May I?”

The grey blue eyes that looked back at Steve upon hearing his question were open, so open, with all emotions written clearly with fear of rejection or disgust being atop the list. The hesitant nod that followed was laced with the unspoken tone of trust. _I trust you; but, I’m scared._

With just this simple gesture, suddenly Steve and Bucky switched places. Steve was now the confident one while Bucky was the one defined by uncertainty. For once in his life, Steve knew exactly what to do in a social situation.

Running his fingers up and down the metal prosthetic, tracing abstractly through the lines and crevices of the artificial joints and musculature, Steve timed Bucky’s breathing. Once it had leveled out, Steve traced deft fingers along the fusion of metal and flesh before leaning forward and allowing his lips to follow that same path, peppering gentle kisses.

“Beautiful,” Steve mumbled against the scarred flesh, knowing Bucky heard only because of their proximity. 

The feeling of Bucky’s lips against his temple sent a jolt of warmth through Steve’s core, prompting him to tilt his head ever so slightly, answering the unspoken request to bring their lips together. Within seconds, the hesitance and fear had departed; Bucky’s arms were confidently wrapped around Steve’s neck, pulling the blond on top of him as Bucky fell back onto the couch. 

Smiling into the kiss, Steve thought, _there’s my Bucky._

*** *** ***

“Well, well, well,” Natasha seductively spoke as her eyes shamelessly raked over Steve’s entire form as he struggled to sit in the seat to her left. Yes, Steve was tired. He had a mission the day before yesterday and stayed up late enjoying the hell out of the best-first-date-ever last night. Sue the man. Also, his ass still hurt which would make anyone a little sluggish. “Safe to say someone got laid.”

Wincing because _contrary to popular belief, bruised tailbones do not heal overnight, Natasha_ , Steve lightheartedly spat back, “screw you, Nat.”

“Looks like someone already did the screwing,” Sam added from across the table in his I’m-witty-and-I-know-it tone, “although Nat was not the recipient.”

“Dammit, Sam,” Steve attempted to discreetly yet firmly chastise. “You were on the mission, you know-”

“Excuse me,” Natasha gently spoke to a passing waiter in what Steve refers to as her damsel in distress voice. (Not to her face, though; Steve would like to retain ownership of his man card...and both testicles.) “Can I get an ice pack for my friend’s-”

“Natasha!”

“Fine,” Nat nonchalantly wafted a hand in Steve’s direction as she mouthed a less than discreet _thank you_ to the knowing waiter. “So, tell us about your date; but, jump to the good part. You know, when he took you home.”

Putting on his best offended expression whilst trying to hide his evident shock (I mean, come on, the lady had absolutely no reservations), Steve immediately retorted, “and why do you assume that I didn’t take _him_ home?”

“Oh, Steve, it’s rather adorable when you try to make people think you’re the sexually driven one.” 

Before Steve could reply (saying exactly what, he wasn’t sure which was probably a problem given his mouth was already open in preparation for a witty retort), an ice pack wrapped in a towel was unceremoniously shoved in front of his face by a waiter that evidently didn’t care to hear the remainder of the conversation. 

“Thanks,” Natasha gently spoke, ignoring the waiter and Steve’s evident desire to be swallowed up by the floor. “He has a serious case of butthurt.”

Shoving the pack under his bruised tail end, Steve’s forehead dramatically found the table as he groaned out a pleading, “ _Nat._ ”

Sam’s snorted out laughter rang in his ears that entire week.

*** *** ***

Walking through the door of the brownstone he called home, Steve shucked off his jacket and tossed his keys into the bowl to the right before making his way to the kitchen. The kitchen where Bucky was currently experimenting with some sort of (hopefully) edible concoction, singing to music Steve never thought he’d voluntarily listen to, shaking his hips off beat, clad in black boxers and not giving a care that his metal prosthesis was on full display.

Leaning on the door jam, now only a few feet away from his still oblivious lover, Steve couldn’t help but think about the first time he was graced with this view: the morning after their first date. Their first date, eleven months ago, where after conquering a common enemy, they elected to forgo their reservations at some fancy restaurant for to-go containers and a Netflix marathon. A Netflix marathon that quickly turned into profound post-coital pillow talks. Pillow talks that lasted so late into the night that Bucky elected to stay in Steve’s bed as the blond reluctantly attended the (too-early) weekly brunch with Nat and Sam. The brunch after the best first date of his life. 

_And the last first date of his life_ , Steve mentally amended as he smiled to himself, utterly smitten and in love, as he ran his fingers over the ring safely tucked in the right pocket of his jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was fun to write, y'all! I hope everyone at least got a smile out of this fic:) Bonus points if reading this in public resulted in inappropriately timed laughter (please share your stories, guys, so I know I'm not the only one that happens to...).

**Author's Note:**

> First modern AU I've written. What do y'all think?


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